Aftermath
by moe81
Summary: When all is said and done, what is there left to do?


**Title**: Aftermath

**Rating**: M

**Warnings**: Character Deaths

**A/N**: Prompt from Sybile: _Aftermath of a battle._

* * *

The final screams ended and the hollow ringing in his ears hurt, the echoing silence lingering on. The air was thick with the smell of blood and it coated the insides of his throat. Smoke hung heavy, masking what he knew to be a carpet of bodies; torn, broken, cut, bloody pieces strewn over the small island. The earth soaked up the destruction and hell they had created, leaving him in a nightmare that would never end.

He stumbled over bits he had no want to look at, the horrifying squish and crunch falling on conveniently deaf ears. His feet were numbed to everything under him and he vaguely registered the sound of crushing glass.

Worried eyes scanned the scene before him, searching for anything familiar, even a flash of colour that stood out from the rest. He tripped, tumbling, falling hard into a wet ditch. The bitter stench of metal slid past his tongue and he doubled over, trying to empty the non-existent contents of his stomach.

He blindly reached out, searching for a hold to climb out on. His fingers found metal and he wrapped a hand around it. Cracking his eyes open and swearing that, just because it was blurry it didn't mean the cause was tears, he stared at a pale blue rod. It took several moments for him to realize it was the Climatact… and resting directly under his other hand was a once white hilt. His brain slammed shut as it refused to process what that meant.

He wouldn't panic. Just because he'd found their weapons, didn't mean anything had happened to them. He wouldn't panic. He forced himself to stand, dragging his rescuees with him. Stepping strong, he climbed the bodies lining the hole and breathed hard as he stood on solid ground again. He wouldn't panic.

A breeze played with his hair and he turned that way, no particular reason other than it seemed like a less than great idea. His sense of time had vanished long ago and with it the increasing awareness that he hadn't found anyone else. He wasn't panicking. He stared forward, unblinking and willing himself to keep moving. Something slapped him in the face. It fell to his feet and he gazed down. His heart ripped.

The nerves in his hands gave way and he dropped his burdens. A tattered straw hat sat innocuously amongst the ruination. The tips of his fingers itched to pick it up but he knew what it meant if he did. He wanted to scream. He wanted to pound the sullied earth and demand that all of it be taken back. He wanted to turn time back to before this place; back to when laughter meant something.

His head snapped up and he ran. He ran until he thought his lungs would tear and his ribs would shatter. He ran until he was blind to all but his destination, and where that was he didn't know but as long as he kept running he'd get there. He'd get there and he'd be able to see…

He tripped.

He kicked out but when green filled his vision, he shifted and narrowly missed connecting with a skull. That ridiculous scar… He wasn't panicking. He clamped fingers around Zoro's neck, searching, praying, begging. There was no pulse.

He opened his mouth, to do what he didn't know, but the tightening in his throat wouldn't let him anyway. He couldn't decide if he wanted to throw himself on the other man or send himself backwards and away from the body.

He saw blue off to his left.

He slipped in something he didn't want to know about and ran again, the voices in his head echoing and bouncing furiously, telling him to hurry, hurry, HURRY!

He skidded to a stop when he saw stars, dulled by the shadow of death and wrapped tight around a pale body. He laid a shaky hand over broken sunglasses, his teeth clenched tight. Leather boots stripped down and long legs sprawled carelessly, no respect for the dead as modesty became non-existent. He reached out and attempted to cover what the rest of the world didn't need to see.

Was there no one?

He curled his fingers, the bite of his nails not felt as they dug in and split his skin further, the trickle of blood falling and adding to the filth already pooled under him. He staggered, pushing his abused body harder, throat and eyes burning with unshed tears.

How long had he been running for?

Pink. Oh god, there was bright pink impaled on a discarded sword. His hands reached out to touch it, stilling before they contacted as he stared blindly ahead. With lead feet, he stepped forward even as his mind rejected what he was seeing.

He fell to his knees as the colours that hit him were wrong, so very very wrong. Blond, brown, curly black... red. So much red. Limbs bent at odd angles, clothes ripped, skin parted, blood stained bone glaring up at him.

He shook his head but how could he deny what was in front of him. Other, others, where were the others? He lurched to his feet and spun in circles, frantically searching, his head whipping around as his gaze darted up and down the paths of the dead. He swore he could hear the dying moans of their ghosts, the howling of the sea, the groan of the land trying to shake them off and have them dragged to the deepest depths of hell.

A hand trapped beneath a boulder…and ten feet away the body it was attached to, pinned down by a spear. He could see orange, faint against the dying sky. He choked and stumbled, picked himself up and stumbled again. He knew what it was and he didn't want to see it. He pushed himself harder.

Arms wrapped around what they could, the captain protecting even in the final moments. Dried tear tracks covered pale cheeks but the ever present grin still managed to linger on. Were they supposed to look that peaceful?

His worn fingers traced the scar under one eye and a harsh sound was ripped from his chest. He touched his head to his captain's and silently prayed for his safe journey.

He threw his head back and howled at the sky.

He didn't know how long he stayed there for: long enough for the cold to seep in through his clothes and his voice to go hoarse. Choked sobs turned to coughing and exhaustion overwhelmed him, his body refusing to do anything more than acknowledge the need pass out.

He watched the horizon, waiting, just waiting and he wondered what it was he was supposed to do now. How could he search for a dream when there was no one to share it with?


End file.
